IV

Citizen Rondeau, whose business it was to look after the creature

comforts of deputy Heriot, was standing in the antichambre facing the

two visitors whom he had just introduced into his master's apartments,

and idly turning a couple of gold coins over and over between his grimy

fingers.

"And mind, you are to see nothing and hear nothing of what goes on in

the next room," said the taller of the two strangers; "and when we go

there'll be another couple of louis for you. Is that understood?"

"Yes! it's understood," grunted Rondeau sullenly; "but I am running

great risks. The citizen-deputy sometimes returns at ten o'clock, but

sometimes at nine.... I never know."

"It is now seven," rejoined the other; "we'll be gone long before nine."

"Well," said Rondeau surlily, "I go out now for my supper. I'll return

in half an hour, but at half-past eight you must clear out."

Then he added with a sneer:

"Citizens Legros and Desgas usually come back with deputy Heriot of

nights, and citizens Jeanniot and Bompard come in from next door for a

game of cards. You wouldn't stand much chance if you were caught here."

"Not with you to back up so formidable a quintette of stalwarts,"

assented the tall visitor gaily. "But we won't trouble about that just

now. We have a couple of hours before us in which to do all that we

want. So au revoir, friend Rondeau ... two more louis for your

complaisance, remember, when we have accomplished our purpose."

Rondeau muttered something more, but the two strangers paid no further

heed to him; they had already walked to the next room, leaving Rondeau

in the antichambre.

Sir Percy Blakeney did not pause in the sitting-room where an oil lamp

suspended from the ceiling threw a feeble circle of light above the

centre table. He went straight through to the bedroom. Here, too, a

small lamp was burning which only lit up a small portion of the

room--the writing-desk and the oak chest--leaving the corners and the

alcove, with its partially drawn curtains, in complete shadow.

Blakeney pointed to the oak chest and to the desk.

"You tackle the chest, Ffoulkes, and I will go for the desk," he said

quietly, as soon as he had taken a rapid survey of the room. "You have

your tools?"

Ffoulkes nodded, and anon in this squalid room, ill-lit, ill-ventilated,

barely furnished, was presented one of the most curious spectacles of

these strange and troublous times: two English gentlemen, the

acknowledged dandies of London drawing-rooms, busy picking locks and

filing hinges like any common house-thieves.

Neither of them spoke, and a strange hush fell over the room--a hush

only broken by the click of metal against metal, and the deep breathing

of the two men bending to their task. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was working

with a file on the padlocks of the oak chest, and Sir Percy Blakeney,

with a bunch of skeleton keys, was opening the drawers of the

writing-desk. These, when finally opened, revealed nothing of any

importance; but when anon Sir Andrew was able to lift the lid of the oak

chest, he disclosed an innumerable quantity of papers and documents tied

up in neat bundles, docketed and piled up in rows and tiers to the very

top of the chest.

"Quick to work, Ffoulkes," said Blakeney, as in response to his friend's

call he drew a chair forward and, seating himself beside the chest,

started on the task of looking through the hundreds of bundles which lay

before him. "It will take us all our time to look through these."

Together now the two men set to work--methodically and quietly--piling

up on the floor beside them the bundles of papers which they had already

examined, and delving into the oak chest for others. No sound was heard

save the crackling of crisp paper and an occasional ejaculation from

either of them when they came upon some proof or other of Heriot's

propensity for blackmail.

"Agnes de Lucines is not the only one whom this brute is terrorising,"

murmured Blakeney once between his teeth; "I marvel that the man ever

feels safe, alone in these lodgings, with no one but that weak-kneed

Rondeau to protect him. He must have scores of enemies in this city who

would gladly put a dagger in his heart or a bullet through his back."

They had been at work for close on half an hour when an exclamation of

triumph, quickly smothered, escaped Sir Percy's lips.

"By Gad, Ffoulkes!" he said, "I believe I have got what we want!"

With quick, capable hands he turned over a bundle which he had just

extracted from the chest. Rapidly he glanced through them. "I have them,

Ffoulkes," he reiterated more emphatically as he put the bundle into his

pocket; "now everything back in its place and--"

Suddenly he paused, his slender hand up to his lips, his head turned

toward the door, an expression of tense expectancy in every line of his

face.

"Quick, Ffoulkes," he whispered, "everything back into the chest, and

the lid down."

"What ears you have," murmured Ffoulkes as he obeyed rapidly and without

question. "I heard nothing."

Blakeney went to the door and bent his head to listen.

"Three men coming up the stairs," he said; "they are on the landing

now."

"Have we time to rush them?"

"No chance! They are at the door. Two more men have joined them, and I

can distinguish Rondeau's voice, too."

"The quintette," murmured Sir Andrew. "We are caught like two rats in a

trap."

Even as he spoke the opening of the outside door could be distinctly

heard, then the confused murmur of many voices. Already Blakeney and

Ffoulkes had with perfect presence of mind put the finishing touches to

the tidying of the room--put the chairs straight, shut down the lid of

the oak chest, closed all the drawers of the desk.

"Nothing but good luck can save us now," whispered Blakeney as he

lowered the wick of the lamp. "Quick now," he added, "behind that

tapestry in the alcove and trust to our stars."

Securely hidden for the moment behind the curtains in the dark recess of

the alcove the two men waited. The door leading into the sitting-room

was ajar, and they could hear Heriot and his friends making merry

irruption into the place. From out the confusion of general conversation

they soon gathered that the debates in the Chamber had been so dull and

uninteresting that, at a given signal, the little party had decided to

adjourn to Heriot's rooms for their habitual game of cards. They could

also hear Heriot calling to Rondeau to bring bottles and glasses, and

vaguely they marvelled what Rondeau's attitude might be like at this

moment. Was he brazening out the situation, or was he sick with terror?

Suddenly Heriot's voice came out more distinctly.

"Make yourselves at home, friends," he was saying; "here are cards,

dominoes, and wine. I must leave you to yourselves for ten minutes

whilst I write an important letter."

"All right, but don't be long," came in merry response.

"Not longer than I can help," rejoined Heriot. "I want my revenge

against Bompard, remember. He did fleece me last night."

"Hurry on, then," said one of the men. "I'll play Desgas that return

game of dominoes until then."

"Ten minutes and I'll be back," concluded Heriot.

He pushed open the bedroom door. The light within was very dim. The two

men hidden behind the tapestry could hear him moving about the room

muttering curses to himself. Presently the light of the lamp was shifted

from one end of the room to the other. Through the opening between the

two curtains Blakeney could just see Heriot's back as he placed the lamp

at a convenient angle upon his desk, divested himself of his overcoat

and muffler, then sat down and drew pen and paper closer to him. He was

leaning forward, his elbow resting upon the table, his fingers fidgeting

with his long, lank hair. He had closed the door when he entered, and

from the other room now the voices of his friends sounded confused and

muffled. Now and then an exclamation: "Double!" "Je ... tiens!"

"Cinq-deux!" an oath, a laugh, the click of glasses and bottles came out

more clearly; but the rest of the time these sounds were more like a

droning accompaniment to the scraping of Heriot's pen upon the paper

when he finally began to write his letter.

Two minutes went by and then two more. The scratching of Heriot's pen

became more rapid as he appeared to be more completely immersed in his

work. Behind the curtain the two men had been waiting: Blakeney ready to

act, Ffoulkes equally ready to interpret the slightest signal from his

chief.

The next minute Blakeney had stolen out of the alcove, and his two

hands--so slender and elegant looking, and yet with a grip of steel--had

fastened themselves upon Heriot's mouth, smothering within the space of

a second the cry that had been half-uttered. Ffoulkes was ready to

complete the work of rendering the man helpless: one handkerchief made

an efficient gag, another tied the ankles securely. Heriot's own

coat-sleeves supplied the handcuffs, and the blankets off the bed tied

around his legs rendered him powerless to move. Then the two men lifted

this inert mass on to the bed and Ffoulkes whispered anxiously: "Now,

what next?"

Heriot's overcoat, hat, and muffler lay upon a chair. Sir Percy, placing

a warning finger upon his lips, quickly divested himself of his own

coat, slipped that of Heriot on, twisted the muffler round his neck,

hunched up his shoulders, and murmuring: "Now for a bit of luck!" once

more lowered the light of the lamp and then went to the door.

"Rondeau!" he called. "Hey, Rondeau!" And Sir Percy himself was

surprised at the marvellous way in which he had caught the very

inflection of Heriot's voice.

"Hey, Rondeau!" came from one of the players at the table, "the

citizen-deputy is calling you!"

They were all sitting round the table: two men intent upon their game of

dominoes, the other two watching with equal intentness. Rondeau came

shuffling out of the antichambre. His face, by the dim light of the oil

lamp, looked jaundiced with fear.

"Rondeau, you fool, where are you?" called Blakeney once again.

The next moment Rondeau had entered the room. No need for a signal or an

order this time. Ffoulkes knew by instinct what his chief's bold scheme

would mean to them both if it succeeded. He retired into the darkest

corner of the room as Rondeau shuffled across to the writing-desk. It

was all done in a moment. In less time than it had taken to bind and gag

Heriot, his henchman was laid out on the floor, his coat had been taken

off him, and he was tied into a mummy-like bundle with Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes' elegant coat fastened securely round his arms and chest. It

had all been done in silence. The men in the next room were noisy and

intent on their game; the slight scuffle, the quickly smothered cries

had remained unheeded.

"Now, what next?" queried Sir Andrew Ffoulkes once more.

"The impudence of the d--- l, my good Ffoulkes," replied Blakeney in a

whisper, "and may our stars not play us false. Now let me make you look

as like Rondeau as possible--there! Slip on his coat--now your hair over

your forehead--your coat-collar up--your knees bent--that's better!" he

added as he surveyed the transformation which a few deft strokes had

made in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' appearance. "Now all you have to do is to

shuffle across the room--here's your prototype's handkerchief--of

dubious cleanliness, it is true, but it will serve--blow your nose as

you cross the room, it will hide your face. They'll not heed you--keep

in the shadows and God guard you--I'll follow in a moment or two ... but

don't wait for me."

He opened the door, and before Sir Andrew could protest his chief had

pushed him out into the room where the four men were still intent on

their game. Through the open door Sir Percy now watched his friend who,

keeping well within the shadows, shuffled quietly across the room. The

next moment Sir Andrew was through and in the antichambre. Blakeney's

acutely sensitive ears caught the sound of the opening of the outer

door. He waited for a while, then he drew out of his pocket the bundle

of letters which he had risked so much to obtain. There they were neatly

docketed and marked: "The affairs of Arnould Fabrice."

Well! if he got away to-night Agnes de Lucines would be happy and free

from the importunities of that brute Heriot; after that he must persuade

her and Fabrice to go to England and to freedom.

For the moment his own safety was terribly in jeopardy; one false

move--one look from those players round the table.... Bah! even then--!

With an inward laugh he pushed open the door once more and stepped into

the room. For the moment no one noticed him; the game was at its most

palpitating stage; four shaggy heads met beneath the lamp and four pairs

of eyes were gazing with rapt attention upon the intricate maze of the

dominoes.

Blakeney walked quietly across the room; he was just midway and on a

level with the centre table when a voice was suddenly raised from that

tense group beneath the lamp: "Is it thou, friend Heriot?"

Then one of the men looked up and stared, and another did likewise and

exclaimed: "It is not Heriot!"

In a moment all was confusion, but confusion was the very essence of

those hair-breadth escapes and desperate adventures which were as the

breath of his nostrils to the Scarlet Pimpernel. Before those four men

had had time to jump to their feet, or to realise that something was

wrong with their friend Heriot, he had run across the room, his hand was

on the knob of the door--the door that led to the antichambre and to

freedom.

Bompard, Desgas, Jeanniot, Legros were at his heels, but he tore open

the door, bounded across the threshold, and slammed it to with such a

vigorous bang that those on the other side were brought to a momentary

halt. That moment meant life and liberty to Blakeney; already he had

crossed the antichambre. Quite coolly and quietly now he took out the

key from the inner side of the main door and slipped it to the outside.

The next second--even as the four men rushed helter-skelter into the

antichambre he was out on the landing and had turned the key in the

door.

His prisoners were safely locked in--in Heriot's apartments--and Sir

Percy Blakeney, calmly and without haste, was descending the stairs of

the house in the Rue Cocatrice.

The next morning Agnes de Lucines received, through an anonymous

messenger, the packet of letters which would so gravely have compromised

Arnould Fabrice. Though the weather was more inclement than ever, she

ran out into the streets, determined to seek out the old Public

Letter-Writer and thank him for his mediation with the English milor,

who surely had done this noble action.

But the old scarecrow had disappeared.

V